"Oh!" laughed his rescuer, "you must let me save you that trouble. I will carry up the basket. Your master is a brute to pile on such loads."
Sesostris again fawned his gratitude, and Agias, with quickened wits and eyes alert, toiled up the dark stairway, and found himself at the top of the building. He had "entered the enemy's country." The Ethiop might not have been open to bribes, but he might be unlocked through friendship, and Agias never needed all his senses more than now. They had reached the topmost flight of stairs, and Sesostris had stopped as if embarrassed whether to invite his deliverer in to enjoy some hospitality, or say him farewell. Then of a sudden from behind the closed door came a clear, sweet, girlish voice, singing, in Greek:—
"O Aitnë, mother mine: A grotto fair
Scooped in the rocks have I, and there I keep
All that in dreams man pictures! Treasured there
Are multitudes of she-goats and of sheep,
Swathed in whose wool from top to toe I sleep."
It was an idyl of Theocritus, very well known by Agias, and without the least hesitation he took up the strain, and continued:—
"The fire boils my pot; with oak or beech
Is piled,—dry beech logs when the snow lies deep.
And storm and sunshine, I disdain them each
As toothless sires a nut, when broth is in their reach."[98]
Agias paused. There was a silence, then a giggle behind the door, and it half opened, and out peered the plump and rosy face of the young girl we have heard Pratinas salute as his niece, Artemisia. The moment she caught sight of the rather manly form of Agias, the door started to close with a slam, but the latter thrust out his foot, blocked the door, and forced an entrance.
"Eleleu!" cried Agias, pushing into a small but neatly furnished room. "What have we here? Do the muses sing in Subura? Has Sappho brought hither her college of poetesses from Lesbos?"
"Ai!" exclaimed Artemisia, drawing back, "who are you? You're dreadfully rude. I never saw you before."
"Nor I you;" replied Agias, in capital good humour, "but that is no reason why I should take my eyes away from your pretty little face. No, you needn't point your middle finger at me so, to ward off the evil eye. I'm neither Chaldean astrologer, nor Etruscan soothsayer. Come, tell me who you are, and whom you belong to?"
Artemisia did not have the least idea what to say. Agias, partly through youthful love of adventure, partly because he felt that he was playing now for very high stakes and must risk a good deal, had thrown himself on the divan, and was holding Artemisia captive under his keen, genial eyes. She grew redder in face than before, began to speak, then broke off with more confused blushes.